Absence of Mercy

by S. M. Goodwin

  One of the shapes emerged from a filthy nest of newspapers. “He ain’t here.”

  Jasper couldn’t tell if the speaker was male or female.

  Beside him, John’s torch flickered out, and the boy cursed. Jasper reached into his pocket and handed him the silver tube of lucifers he always kept on his person.

  “D-Do you know where he is?”

  “Eh?” the voice grunted querulously, shuffling under the paper.

  “Where. Is. He?” Jasper enunciated clearly and loudly.

  Eyes glinted in the dim light, and two other figures stirred.

  “Who’re you?”

  “A p-police officer.”

  “That’s who took ’im,” another voice chimed in.

  “Which p-policeman?”

  Two pairs of eyes now glinted back at him.

  Jasper reached into his trouser pocket and took out two coins of unknown denomination. He flipped one to each person.

  “Ryan and another copper.”

  It wasn’t the name he’d been expecting.

  “When was this?”

  “The day he met you.”

  “How—”

  “He told us about you—said you’d paid him to talk about Dunbarton. He ain’ come back.”

  Jasper felt sick. “D-Do you know if he uses a p-particular pawnshop?”

  “Matt Kelly’s.”

  “Where’s—”

  “On the corner, across from Chang’s.”

  Jasper reached into his pocket for two more coins, sending them spinning through the gloom. His torch began to flicker, and he turned. “John? I need—” He blinked into the empty space around him. Why, the little bastard! He’d buggered off. And he’d taken Jasper’s lucifers with him.

  CHAPTER 28

  It was after three o’clock when Jasper returned to the Astor House.

  “D-Did Detective Law come looking for me?” he asked as Paisley helped him out of his coat.

  “No, sir.”

  Apparently Law had enjoyed no more success with his errands than Jasper had.

  “I n-need a bath—and a massage.” The muscles in his neck, shoulders, and back were so tight he could barely move.

  “Very good, sir.”

  The visit to the pawnbroker had been an utter waste of time. The man who owned the shop—Mr. Kelly—could teach clams a few things. Their increasingly hostile back-and-forth—Jasper asking various questions about Hart, the watch, and how Mr. Kelly felt about spending some time in the Tombs—had been interspersed with people drifting in and out, most of them clearly involved in criminal pursuits.

  No amount of bribing, begging, or threatening could make the older man recall the watch or Hart.

  Jasper dropped into a chair and listlessly pulled off his tie while Paisley removed his ankle boots and stockings.

  He flexed his liberated toes while he unbuttoned his shirt. Paisley’s hand appeared in front of him, and he dropped the cuff links into the offered palm before heaving himself to his feet and shedding shirt, trousers, and drawers in a trail behind him while he headed for the madak cigars.

  He lit one, inhaled deeply, and then flopped onto his bed on his back, closing his eyes while the cigar worked its magic.

  By the time he climbed out of the steaming tub an hour later, he was feeling almost human. The ache in his head had gone from a full-blown bugle blast to a muffled pounding.

  Jasper had fallen asleep under Paisley’s magical hands when the bell in the foyer jolted him awake. Paisley covered him with a towel from the warmer before leaving the room.

  “My lord?”

  He must have dozed again, because he woke with a start. “Yes?”

  “There’s a Mr. Grew to see you.”

  Grew? Comprehension slowly shoved its way into his foggy brain. “Ah, yes, I’ll see him. Go f-fetch some clothing.”

  Ten minutes later he entered the small study to find one very nervous gentleman’s gentleman.

  He suspected it was Paisley and not him who terrified the man.

  “Welcome, Mr. Grew. Please have a seat. Can I get you a d-drink?” he asked the valet, who clearly had no intention of being seated in Jasper’s presence.

  “Oh. Well. I should hate to—”

  “How about some b-bourbon? I’m new to it but find it delightful. I’d like to know your opinion of it.”

  Grew looked visibly pleased. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Please, have a s-seat,” Jasper said again as he handed over the glass.

  Grew perched his bum on the very edge of the chair, prepared to flee at any moment.

  Jasper lifted his glass and gave Grew a questioning look.

  “Oh.” Grew hastily took a gulping drink, coughed, and then said, red faced and hoarse, “Excellent, sir.”

  “Ah, good. So, how m-may I help you?”

  Grew put the glass on the side table with a shaky hand and reached into his breast pocket. He extracted a small bundle tied with a piece of twine and handed it to Jasper.

  “I never would have said anything if he’d not been murdered, but if these can help you in any way, I just—please, sir, don’t let Mrs. Finch see them. She’s such an innocent lady, and Mr. Finch cared for her, even though he—well, even though he might have strayed.”

  Jasper counted seven letters. He pulled out the top one. It was brief, barely a quarter of a page, the writing loopy—almost childish—and riddled with misspellings.

  My darling,

  I no you didn’t want me to rite again, but I wont use names. Nobody will no. If I cant at leest rite to you wen I’m feelin low, I will die.

  I need to see you. I am in constant agony thinking about you—nowing you might be somewere else, in the arms of an other. I’m sory I fussed at you the last time we were together—you no how I get jellus.

  I put up the notises you wanted.

  Yore lover forever—M

  “There is no d-direction or postmark?”

  “They came by messenger.”

  “D-Did Mr. Finch respond?”

  “Yes; those I delivered myself.”

  “To?”

  “Er, Mr. Finch’s tailor, he’d used the place often for exchanging messages with, er—”

  “Certain friends?”

  Grew nodded with relief. “Yes, exactly. I brought the letters or—”

  “Or?”

  “Well, sometimes he sent little presents that way, er, if the friendship was over.”

  “When did the last of these c-c-come?”

  “A week before Mr. Finch died.”

  “When d-did he last send something?”

  “That same evening.”

  “N-Nothing since?”

  “Well, not through me.”

  “D-Did he ever use anyone else?”

  Grew shook his head. “But I know he occasionally went himself.”

  Jasper went to the secretary desk and took out a piece of paper and a pencil.

  He handed both to Grew. “Please write d-down the address.”

  When Grew handed him the address, the valet said, “About the letters, sir—”

  “I sh-shall see they are destroyed if they are of n-no use.”

  “Thank you, sir. Keeping this to myself was a burden.”

  Jasper was relieved he had no such letters for Paisley to find. At least he didn’t think he did.

  After the valet left, he read the rest of the letters, which were much like the first, containing protestations of love mixed with apologies for jealousy.

  The door opened, and Jasper looked up from the last letter.

  “You have another visitor, sir.”

  “Well, who is it?” he asked when Paisley just stared.

  “A female, my lord.” He said the word female like another man might say the apocalypse. “She calls herself Mrs. Felix Dunbarton.”

  “G-Good Lord. I hope you didn’t leave her st-standing in the foyer.”

  Paisley sniffed. “I put her in the sitting room. Shall I bring her in?”r />
  “No, I’ll go to her.”

  Mrs. Dunbarton was staring out the window in the direction of City Hall when he entered.

  “I’m t-t-terribly sorry to have kept you waiting, Mrs. D-Dunbarton.”

  She turned from the window, her yards of black crepe rustling.

  “You appear to have engaged a member of the royal family as your manservant,” she observed.

  Jasper laughed. “Paisley will be p-pleased to hear himself d-described that way.” He gestured to a chair. “Please, won’t you have a s-seat?”

  “I cannot stay. I’ve found somebody for Agota.”

  “Ah. That’s excellent,” Jasper said.

  Mrs. Dunbarton stared up at him, her expression expectant.

  Jasper was at a loss. “Er, thank you,” he added.

  “I thought you might wish to see her off.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course. I’m so p-pleased you r-recalled my interest.” And he was, too, although the suddenness of it all was rather strange.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t give you more notice,” she said, with her usual aptitude for mind reading. “It was a last-minute arrangement, a private orphanage on Rivington run by a Baptist couple. They’ve got a family who are soon to be headed to Wisconsin, where they’ve purchased a farm.”

  “W-Wisconsin,” Jasper repeated, unable to place the name.

  “A newer state—only ten years old.”

  “Ah, I see. Let me fetch my hat, coat, and cane, and we can be off.”

  Moments later he was escorting Mrs. Dunbarton—so completely veiled that her own parent wouldn’t have recognized her—toward an ancient heavy-bodied carriage driven by none other than her butler, Cates, who was dressed in the garb of a coachman, a groom sitting beside him.

  Jasper handed Mrs. Dunbarton inside, where a very happy Agota was waiting to greet him. She flung her arms around him, squeezed the breath out of him, and babbled a tearful stream of unintelligible words.

  “Oh, h-here now, d-d-don’t cry,” Jasper murmured, patting her shoulder, mortified to his very bone marrow.

  Mrs. Dunbarton smirked. “It seems you have a quite an effect on females of all ages, my lord.”

  Once Agota had her fill of hugging him, she sat back in the seat beside him, staring up at him with an embarrassingly worshipful gaze.

  Jasper smiled and handed over his cane. He’d brought along another silver-handled walking stick, this one with ornate Celtic carving and a large sapphire set in the top of the handle.

  “I see your butler does double d-duty as your coachman,” he said, as Agota studied the glittering stone.

  “Cates is exceptional. He worked for my parents after leaving the army and came with me when I married. He’s clever and discreet.”

  “You r-require discretion often?”

  “Often enough.”

  “How … mysterious.”

  “Not really, my lord. But it is more difficult to move about freely when one is female. It’s comforting to have a servant who won’t sell the private details of my life to a newspaperman.”

  Jasper had to agree; Paisley would go to the rack before he’d speak about Jasper or his affairs.

  “From the army to b-butlering. Qu-Quite a change of careers for him.”

  “Perhaps in England that is unusual, but this is America. We are a country that rejected the divine right of kings and embraced the equality of man.”

  “A c-commendable philosophy.”

  “However?”

  Jasper gave her a quizzical look.

  “It’s a commendable philosophy, but … what?”

  “I’m a guest in your c-country, ma’am; it’s not for me to c-comment.”

  She gave an unladylike snort. “Oh, pooh.”

  Jasper laughed.

  “You get away with that quite a bit, don’t you?”

  “What’s that?” he asked, and then wished he hadn’t—because she would tell him.

  “You chuckle or flash your charming smile or wield those romantic eyes like weapons when you don’t wish to answer a question or when you consider a subject vulgar. I must sound envious of your beauty and charm.” She gave a bitter laugh. “I am envious. But that’s how you get on, isn’t it? On charm and beauty? And nobody ever holds you to account. Quite the opposite—they all but fling themselves at your feet.”

  Jasper’s face heated at her hostile accusation.

  “What?” she demanded, looking livelier and younger than he’d ever seen her. “Don’t be a coward—tell me what you were thinking. Speak your mind, for a change.”

  “I’m thinking that you just called me a cowardly dandiprat.”

  She gaped, as if he’d yelled the words rather than delivered them in a cool, level tone. “You didn’t stammer when you said that.”

  Jasper turned away and looked out the window, annoyed that he’d snapped at her. He didn’t stammer when he was angry, but as he was so rarely angry—usually only his father could bring it out in him, and now, it appeared, Mrs. Dunbarton—it hardly mattered.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Jasper turned at the sound of her voice, but she was looking down. “Mrs. Dunbarton?”

  She glanced up, her cheeks a fiery red. “I’m sorry for being so awful to you.”

  Jasper gave an embarrassed laugh. “Please, think n-n-nothing of it, Mrs. Dunbarton. I know you were only t-teasing me.”

  “I wasn’t teasing; I was being spiteful. I wanted to hurt you.”

  Jasper’s confusion was now complete. “Why? Have I off-offended you in s-s-some way? If so—”

  “Of course you haven’t offended me. I doubt you would even know how. Your manners are delightful. You are delightful. You’re just so—so—perfect it brings out the shrew in me.”

  Jasper felt the headache he’d banished earlier returning with a vengeance. “I’m sorry I—”

  An ear-splitting bang shook the coach.

  Jasper grabbed the girl and pulled her to the floor as pulverized chips of carriage rained down on their heads. He yanked Mrs. Dunbarton down beside Agota and covered both their small bodies with his.

  The second shot took out a window and showered his back and hatless head with glass.

  Shouts and the sound of numerous feet moving came through the broken window. The panel slid open, and Cates’s face appeared.

  “Get us the hell out of here, C-Cates,” Jasper ordered.

  Blood was trickling down the other man’s temple. “I need you outside, my lord. Now.”

  Beneath him, Mrs. Dunbarton squirmed and reached for her reticule—a large ugly thing, he’d noticed earlier.

  She pulled out a miniature pistol. “Here,” she said, a fierce light in her eyes. “You might need this.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Hy had questioned almost every tenant at the Greene Street address, which had taken nearly two hours, but it had been worth it. He could hardly wait to tell Lightner what he’d learned.

  Unfortunately, he had to wait for O’Malley, who he’d sent off to get them something to eat a half hour ago, as the man was about to drive him mad with his incessant yattering. Hy hadn’t wanted him along, but Lightner had insisted.

  “He’ll never l-learn if we don’t t-teach him.”

  Hy agreed, but that didn’t mean he wanted to do the teaching.

  A scuffing sound behind him made him turn. “It’s about time you got back—”

  “Hello, boyo. Fancy seein’ you here.” Ryan was grinning from ear to ear, his eyes glinting with malice.

  “What do you want?”

  Ryan peered around the empty office. “Where’s your protector and his cane?”

  “Why? Did you want another thrashin’?” Hy took a step toward the smaller man, and the two patrolmen who flanked Ryan puffed out their chests and moved closer. “I see you’ve brought your protectors. This ain’t the Sixth, though, is it? You’re a bit out of your territory. What are you doing here?”

  “What I’m doin’ is your bloody job, out lookin’ for
Peter Haslem, ’cause you and yon l-l-l-lordling let him scarper.”

  “Why are you here? Think I’m hidin’ Haslem in my pocket?”

  “I heard over at Horgan’s that Haslem had some connection with this place.”

  “I can’t imagine Lizzy Horgan allowing the likes of you into her business.”

  Ryan sneered. “Well, a right unimaginative git you are, then. Turns out you don’t know everything. Anyone with an ounce of sense can see Haslem was fuckin’ the two of ’em—Finch and Janssen, the sick twists—in Haslem’s little panel crib and things got outa hand.”

  “Horgan’s doesn’t have panel cribs, Ryan.” Panel cribs—secret rooms where a pimp or another whore might hide, waiting for a convenient time to pop out and rob a customer—were places you often found in the poorer brothels. “Only an idiot would accuse Lizzy Horgan of underhanded dealing. Besides, we already searched Horgan’s.”

  “I’m guessin’ you an’ O’Malley couldn’t find yer own pricks, so I’ll have to go into Horgan’s and do a bit o’ searchin’ myself.”

  “Is that what you reckon?”

  Ryan took a step toward him, not stopping until Hy could smell his unwashed body. “You oughta be thankin’ me instead of givin’ me lip. I reckon we’ve solved your bloody case for youse.”

  “Go tell McElhenny—I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to arrest whoever you want—with or without any evidence. Hell, you can always beat a confession out of somebody—at least out of women half your size.”

  Raw hatred glinted in Ryan’s eyes. “I’m just here to deliver a message.”

  “Consider your message delivered. Now piss off.”

  “I ain’t done yet. McCarty wants you.”

  The name sent a shiver down Hy’s spine.

  Ryan laughed with spiteful glee. “Even a squarehead like yourself knows not to shrug off his invitation.”

  Hy found it amusing that Ryan used terms like squarehead, as if calling someone out for being half German was an insult. “So, you’re delivering messages for thugs now.”

  “Right enough I am. If you don’t think you’ll be doin’ the same, you’re a bloody fool.”

  “I’ll go when I’m finished here.”

  “Nah, you’d best come now, boyo.” Ryan pressed the knuckles of one fist—which Hy saw were wrapped in heavy brass—against his open palm.